


how to skin your knees standing straight

by fated_addiction



Category: House M.D.
Genre: Challenge: house big bang, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-03-30
Updated: 2008-03-30
Packaged: 2017-10-12 13:23:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 19,962
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/125318
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fated_addiction/pseuds/fated_addiction
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>That summer, Cameron tries to keep her choices straight. Why should she stay?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to all sorts of people. My betas, Plum Pink and Spybarbie for being saints. Plum_pink and [Spybarbie](http://spybarbie.livejournal.com) for being saints. To [_vicodin](http://_vicodin.livejournal.com), to Falseeeyelashes, and to [glassbomb](http://glassbomb.livejournal.com) for telling me that I haven't completely lost my goddamn mind doing this. All of you, it means a lot.
> 
> [](http://house-bigbang.dreamwidth.org/7103.html)  
> by [](http://elizabethswan_.livejournal.com/profile)[**elizabethswan_**](http://elizabethswan_.livejournal.com/)
> 
> [](http://house-bigbang.dreamwidth.org/7192.html)  
>  by [](http://pandorashollow.livejournal.com/profile)[**pandorashollow**](http://pandorashollow.livejournal.com/)

It's done. It's really done.

It's the strangest thing. She doesn't know how to wrap herself around the idea that she's just left three years behind, just like that. She's trying not to think that it's solidarity.

That this was for her.

It had to be for her.

She's staring at her hands, in the middle of the table, her fingers curling around her fork. She picks it up. She puts it down. She picks it up again, twisting it between her thumb and finger. Her gaze is too distant to really wrap herself around the repetition of movement, but any sense of routine seems to pull her away from what she should really be thinking about.

"I'm hungry."

"Huh?" Cameron looks up and Chase is staring back at her, amused. She shrugs, putting down the fork and finds herself looking away. The diner's far from busy. They've lost a good ten minutes with their waitress and the steak that Chase took too long to order. It feels funny, she thinks, the sense of placement she's now trying to really grasp.

She really did this. It really happened. She's waiting for it, the vindication, but it's not even that--the moment of standing there, ending what she thought was going to end and curtail properly, happened and finished. But what does that even mean? She had this idea in her head and she _did_ it; the subtle reassurance of the _right_ thing is completely gone, drifting away from her as she suddenly begins to come to terms with the fact that she did do what she did.

She quit. It's done.

She's really done.

She jumps a little, Chase's hand covering hers. His thumb slides over the bridge of her fingers and he sighs, shifting closer.

"It's a little weird," he says.

She snorts. "It's a little weird."

The difference though, and she knows more or less he's going to bring it up, is that she had the choice. The choice was hers and she didn't hesitate. She made it. Maybe, it is the repercussions hovering over her. It's more than just a little self-indulgent; it's bizarrely separate from what she did expect, if anything at all. It wasn't for solidarity. True form, she wonders if that's why it feels the way it does. That she's placing herself, like everyone else's assumptions, into that category of not really doing something for her own interest.

"It's a little weird," she repeats, sighing.

She watches the smile curl on Chase's mouth, almost too forced, as their fingers lace. She takes a deep breath and nods slowly. It should only be a little weird. She's going to be okay. It's now time to deal with the what's to come.

"You quit though. The only one with a little dignity."

"I don't know about that," she sighs.

The honesty is too dry, even for her, and she slips her hand away from his. Cameron leans back into her side of the booth, not really hungry but wishing for some sort of distraction. She brushes her fingers against the edge of the table, her thumb tracing over the plastic corners. She bites her lip.

Chase sighs. She ignores it.

"I should've hit him."

She laughs. "And that would've done _what_?"

That's what they have, you know? This whole dance of superficial _what if_ and _could be_ and this is what they _should've_ done. But when it's really all said and done, the choices are still skewed.

Foreman's far from her head, but the fact remains that he left trying to make a point that he wasn't really making. Chase had no choice, was seemingly the only one that really took to what was unraveling and making something of it. And she, well, she's back to feeling that sense of insignificant culturing; it was always harder for her and easier to hide, but the idea of her place was never completely comfortable for her. Oh, she could lie her way through that. It's how she kept an actual private life for three years, not matter what kinds of slips came, but she's starting to really feel these things.

A little too late. And that, even thinking of it, weighs on her shoulders.

"Hey."

He touches her hand again and again, she jumps. She blushes when he raises an eyebrow, cocking his head to the side. She's been caught drifting and she ducks, knowing full well she's probably missed something.

"It would've made me feel a bit better," he says slowly.

Her answer's weak. "Boys."

She's saved by their food, her salad dropping in front of her and the waitress ignoring another prod for refills. Chase snorts, she kicks him under the table--not even worth it, knowing that the two of them are probably not in the best place to have a stupid argument with someone else.

She starts to pick at her salad, her fork pinning and tearing through pieces of lettuce. She sighs and reaches for the dressing, dumping a considerable amount over the curled lettuce. Chase snorts and she shrugs. As long as she doesn't really taste it.

They're quiet again, though, and she finds herself studying him. He's okay with it. She can't decide whether she's more curious than jealous, but he's really okay with it. It seems foreign to her. There's an edge to it too--she can't really figure out if it's just that anger that she's expecting him to have or if it's something more. It's a different sense of a relationship and the disappointment she can pick out from Chase is too obscure for her to understand.

It's not her business, she reminds herself. It's _not_ her business.

"So what are we going to do?" She sort of blurts it out, flushing and sneaking a peek at him. Her hands weigh on the corners of the table again, the fork clattering against her plate.

He snorts. "I don't know."

It's when the silence starts and she's much more uncomfortable around him, than anyone else, when it drops. It's out of her control and she feels like he's watching her, much _more_ interested in watching her than letting her have the moment. Ever since they've fallen to this, whatever it maybe, her vulnerability is much more obvious to her. The truth, the real truth, is that it's been a long time and she's had mistakes; learning from them, it's different system, less telling as she gets older. She pushes her plate away to distract herself, though, her fingers curling around her straw of her soda and shifting it through the ice.

Chase coughs. She looks up and he's leaning forward, picking at his fries. He shakes his head and she feels a little bit of a smile, mirroring the gesture.

"Do you have interviews?"

She snorts. "I just quit yesterday."

It's a half-acknowledgment, dry and almost _her_. A part of herself wants to be back in that room and perhaps, really, because House never completely acknowledged her step in what should be a positive direction, she wants to _go_ back. There was a layer of confidence there that isn't here, that she wants, and she doesn't know how to really look for it either. It's like he's kept it.

It's just in her head, she thinks.

Chases reaches for her hand. "Do you have your resume?"

She throws her napkin at him and he laughs, the curl of his mouth light. She finds herself smiling back a little, still somewhat serious. The honesty starts to churn and she finally leans forward, a little out of her space.

"Seriously," she murmurs. Her voice fades into a pause and she presses back, her hands swaying over the table again. "I don't know what I'm going to do."

It feels funny meaning it.

* * *

They're in bed, later that night, and she's staring off to the side.

Her lips start to turn as his fingers spread against her hip, stroking lightly as she settles on her stomach. She can't really see him in the dark. She's left the television on, but doesn't feel like moving.

The intimacy of the gesture is nothing startling. She's long past the age of waiting for idealism and revolutions, hand in hand, to carry in her throat the romantic idealism that she had a long time ago. She grew up too fast, a simple fact of life.

She shifts, leaning closer.

"Come to Arizona with me."

It drops. It just drops and she freezes, her fingers slipping under her pillow. She wonders if she really heard him. But she did and avoiding that, avoiding him seems to be nothing less than unproductive. She doesn't ask him to say it again. _Come to_ still lingers around her. The sound isn't hopeful, but it's there and she turns her gaze back to him. Chase doesn't look at her and she has to push.

"Arizona?"

He nods slowly. "Arizona."

She's almost afraid to ask. It's too sudden, too soon, and she still has no real functioning idea about anything, about him and this, her and what she wants. He seems to have a plan. With her. It does nothing but make her weary, more uncomfortable than curious. She takes the pause instead, turning onto her back. The sheets shuffle around her legs and she breathes softly.

"What's in Arizona?"

She's hesitant and Chase seems to know, his hand dropping off to the side and away from her hip. They're both quiet; she doesn't press, doesn't know if she wants to the press, and there's just a sigh from him.

Finally, he turns and his mouth brushes against her shoulder.

"Something new."

She waits for the feeling; all she has for him is a sigh.

* * *

It's the strangest thing, she thinks, it's really the strangest thing.

She's coming to terms with the mortality of her own routine. Get up. Run. Coffee. Shower--but then what? It's not like she doesn't have anything else to do. There are still things to be organized: bills, resumes, bills, call mom, don't call mom, think about old friends, don't think about old friends. It's almost a marvel, really, how much she hasn't noticed.

She tells Chase, after he leaves in the morning, that she just wants the time to herself. He seems to understand it easily, does the whole _if you need me_ gesture, and tells her that he'll call later. It's fine. It's good. There's a growing appreciation that she has, having someone that really understands what she is going through, not matter what the difference of circumstances are.

But she stands in her apartment.

It's smaller, much smaller, when she just looks and sees things. She has too many books, too many pictures, as if she were trying to compensate for lack of time and lack of energy. Some of the people in the pictures are long gone, far from her life, and half the names are from a place she'd rather not go back to, remember and hold to herself.

So the middle of her apartment becomes a slow view of three years of her life, of what she's really devoted herself to. She doesn't know what to feel about it; there's no proxy of hate or anger or even disappointment. She feels a little too removed from some of these pictures, of face of people she did say things like _keep in touch_ and _I'll be around_ and mean it.

It's a little too much for her, having this kind of time even for a moment.

She steps away from her pictures and shelves then, her feet bare and her jeans scraping against the carpet. She moves to sit back on the couch, her legs curling underneath her. Her laptop is open. She's got a small pile of papers, positive recommendations, and a list, a couple of things that came to line up with just a small phone call. It's so strange, despite how much she knows about House's reputation and the paperwork she dealt with, to see what kind of doors open.

There are _actual_ doors that are opening.

Her cell phone rings and she blinks, stretching forward to reach for it. She looks at the number, out of habit, toys with a smile and cradles it to her ear.

"Hey," she murmurs.

"Arizona."

Chase leaves nothing to introduction and she's sort of dismayed, again, by the fact that he's asking her. And again, the tension curls in her too fast, too soon, and too much because of the possible implications. Has he thought about this?

This is the easy part for though, stalling to cover her dismay. "I don't know."

There's a sigh from them both, splitting as she shifts back in her seat. Her head ducks and she leans into the couch. Uncomfortable, she stretches herself out and drapes her legs over the side.

His voice is soft. "You worried?"

"Resume," she lies.

Hesitation is thick in her voice and what she really _wants_ to say is _give me space_. That's what she needs. They were here before and while it was cute in the beginning, Cameron doesn't do well with being this close, this cornered, and things like _too soon_.

"You're a terrible liar." There's a softness in his voice, an affection she's not completely ready for or thinks that she really deserves. Half the time, she's still left wondering really, why does he want to be with her?

She licks her lips. "I try."

There's a pause and she almost fills it with _where are you?_. Her conversation always falls into her tendency towards being awkward and complacent. Instead, she just listens to him and feels him listen to her. She feels younger again, almost embarrassingly so, and waves her hand against her leg, over her jeans and then her knee.

It's like that first conversation. He breaks before her.

"You can type resumes in Arizona."

It slides out of him, into her ear, and out the other. She shifts in her place, shaking her head. It's not that she wouldn't like the idea of getting away; she's just not really ready to do it that way. She's done it that way before and the repercussions of her actions seem to linger just a little bit more; acknowledgements do taper and fall and as much as she would like to tell _someone_ just everything, get it off of her chest, it's just not going to happen.

She doesn't do things that way.

"I could," she says quietly.

It occurs to her that she's never really asked, _really_ asked him if he's ready for this, if he can be patient for her. It seems selfish and more indulgent than anything else. She doesn't like how it makes her feel. She doesn't like how any of this feels. He makes her feel out of place and as unintentional as it is, she's only prone to react the way she knows. It's an excuse, but it's what she has.

The whole idea of what she did, of what she drove to do, is losing the strength of intention that she had. She could go on and on about how it was supposed to be something good, something new, and a real chance for herself. It was. It still is. It's kind of lackluster now and she feels, really, out of her element.

But she doesn't know where to find it.

"You don't want to go."

She's startled. She thinks she's missed something, lost a part of the conversation. She blinks, looks around, and hears the sigh on the other line.

Her mouth thins. "I don't know."

This time she really takes the pause. She listens to him, imagines him, and can practically taste the disappointment. She doesn't know how to do this yet, she wants to say to him and it's unfair to really place the idea of a relationship on her too soon. But that's stupid and selfish and she did say, she _did_ say that she wanted to try. She's willing to try.

Chase deserves more than just a little honesty.

"It's hitting, you know?" She takes a deep breath. "I mean--I actually did this."

She can almost taste the disappointment from him, the obvious presentation of her inability to let this go now surfacing. It isn't fair though, she thinks. It's not fair for him to think that she would all of a sudden have this impulsive revelation. She didn't do this for him. She didn't do this for House. She didn't do this for Foreman.

It's what she learned. There's no such thing as solidarity, not between them, not after three years. It's what he taught them, skewed loyalty and idealism. The heart of it, the matter, is more or less how she's going to function outside of him and the hospital. It's the world and then it's House and that, in itself, is much more to deal with than anything else.

What do you do when you're gone?

"It's a good thing," he interrupts her silence, "it's a really good thing. You should be proud of yourself, okay?"

It's forced and stilted, but she appreciates it nonetheless. Cameron feels a tired smile and she shifts forward, reaching for a copy of her resume.

She's quiet. "I guess."

But he holds the moment. "You had the choice of walking away."

She doesn't know what to say to that. The anger is there again, lacing edges in his voice. When he sighs, she tenses and it's like they're going to start fighting about all of this. Two different places, she wants to say to him, _two_ different places. They're in two completely different places. But whether he understands that or not, is not important. They've stepped outside and into this.

"Come to Arizona with me," he says again. The intensity of before is gone, softened, and it's almost as weary as she feels.

She stays honesty. "I don't know."

"Allison."

That makes her freeze. He's done it before, her first name dropping here and there and in context; it's more than just a little odd still. It's too intimate for her and she finds herself standing, brushing her hand nervously over her stomach. Her thumb strokes the line of her jeans, the tension rising a little too quickly. She gets defensive, on instinct, her throat tightening and the need to move growing. She shifts forward to the kitchen and to her sink. Her hips press against the edge and she peers out the window, into the small neighborhood her building is in.

"Don't you think it's a little too fast?"

He snorts. "It's just a trip."

"It's _never_ just a trip." It's a little harsher than she intends to make it, her fingers sliding along the edge of the sink. She hears nothing from him but a sigh and she almost regrets the words.

"You said--"

Her eyes close. "I know."

They're quiet now. She can continue to beat it in her head; _give yourself time_ and _it's just starting_ have a common cycle, particularly with how new this is between the two of them. But then again, it isn't and it won't be. There's no grand sense of excitement and her curiosity has already been martyred by House, time and time again.

She honestly doesn't know what she's waiting for, if there's something really to be waiting for, and she wonders if this whole idea of the two of them is really worth it. They're always going to have these three years between them, the subject of influence lost in the idea that she had really felt nothing more than subjective curiosity for Chase. But how do these things turn so quickly? Is she really going to step into something like this?

Is she _that_ lonely?

Cameron sighs. Chase coughs.

"We're not planning a wedding," he says slowly, "I'm not asking you to run away with me--I saw my parents. I saw what my mother became. I saw what my father became. That was enough for me. I just--wouldn't it be nice, you know, to have something outside of all of this? We kind of deserve it after all of the things we went through."

And there it is again, the drop of solidarity in between the layers and layers of _we_ and _you and I_. Is it really about a tangible relationship? Can they even survive it?

She doesn't know why she's letting this bother her. But Chase continues, more or less, with or without her listening to him.

"I don't want to think about being here anymore. You're right. We did what we had to do. So he fired me. But in some strange sense--"

She's quiet. "You're placating me."

It makes her a little angry, a little hurt, and all she wants to do is say, what she should've said before, is just _leave it_ and mean it instead of half-heartedly. But she can't get angry at him.

It wouldn't be fair.

"I--"

He sighs. "It's okay."

She reminds herself to try, just a little bit more, because it wouldn't hurt and he's interested and it's been awhile. She can't lie to herself and say that it isn't nice to have someone, anyone, to really hold her in a sensible place. Something that she needs. But there's also the pressure, the biggest pressure, of the difference of what he wants and what she wants and if it's going to be enough for now. It does something to the idea of them, the idea that there could be a possibility for them outside all of this.

She sighs then too, licking her lips.

"When do you leave?"

"Thursday," he mutters, moving something on the other end. She listens to it drop. Doesn't ask--it's easier to talk this way, she thinks. Just a little bit.

Cameron rubs the back of her neck.

Slowly, then, she sighs. "Then I have a little time."

* * *

She decides not to think about it.

It transforms into another scheme of avoidance, ducking a phone call or two, telling him that she's busy, that she might have actual interviews set up. These are half-lies and half-truths and she knows Chase isn't stupid; he's just completely unnerved her. It's the idea too, the real idea that she has no idea what she's doing.

Shouldn't be easy for her too?

But she keeps on ignoring it, simply because it's too much on top of too much--she does this to herself all the time, dipping into these schemes of thoughts that get complicated because she lets it. She has to get out of the apartment. She has to _stop_ thinking about it. So she decides that she needs groceries and the drive. It's a few minutes to her door and she doesn't even bother going back to check if she's locked it or just absently closed it. It's the need for space that's driving her. She's outside then and realizes that she's left her phone-- _accidentally_ , she practices.

Accidentally.

The market is a couple blocks away, small and late afternoon hours. She's easily in and out and people from her building usually scatter inside. She likes being unrecognized and keeping to herself. She's not a cooking person, but compulsively, she likes to have that sense of space, in whatever the most menial task it is.

So she takes the drive, sings along to the radio, and even laughs at herself a couple times, just a couple times. It's that strange taste of freedom again and it's almost amusing how taken she is by it, too quickly really. But she stops that, enjoys what time she does give herself, and parks the car.

There are a few people here and there. Spots in the parking lot are easy to find. Getting out, she swings her keys into her palm. She drops them. She laughs and it's sort of silly how quickly the highs and lows are interchanging. Reaching for her keys, she slides them into her pocket and grabs a basket. There aren't a lot of people inside the market either and she's not really paying any attention, dipping into an aisle.

Maybe she should've brought her phone. She's being a child, not nearly as petty as she feels, but avoiding it is just going to let things build. This is what she's good at, she knows, the self-depreciating push of allowing herself to over-think all of this.

"Stop it," she mutters.

She grabs the first box of cereal that she finds, frowns, and puts it back. She picks up another one, with raisins this time, and frowns again.

"Well, hey. Small world."

Cameron freezes, her back arching into the sudden weight that drops onto her shoulders. It's almost instant, not because she recognizes House's voice, but because the tension is too easy to have and associate with him. She puts the box of cereal back, jumping when he steps forward and easily into her space. He reaches for another of the boxes, dumping it into his basket, right at his feet.

She sighs, biting her lip. "Uh, hi."

"Lucky Charms," he shrugs.

"Nice."

She doesn't really look at him; the change from here to back there is too obvious, the fact that it was much easier to look him in the eye and say _I'm done_ in the office space as opposed to being here and really facing the fact that she is.

He seems amused by her, indifferent to the obvious discomfort that she's displaying. It's too quick, too soon, and it smacks right down in the middle of her relationship things with Chase. As if it weren't enough to deal with.

Right, she thinks, _great_.

"I thought you'd be out of dodge."

He doesn't seem so surprised to see her either, which makes her wonder if she had been paying attention earlier, that she might've seen _something_. It's stupid to dwell on this and that with him, especially with the peculiarities of now.

"Right," she mutters.

With no concept of space, he dips forward and starts to pick through the stuff that she seemed to have randomly grabbed. The basket weighs on her arm. Mustard. Flowers. Oatmeal--she _hates_ oatmeal. That stumbles out of her hand, back between two boxes of something. The flush of embarrassment is quick, almost relatively painless because he's not completely paying attention to her either.

But he makes the dig. "Eating for one?"

"Usually."

It never really occurs to her, but suddenly, even though he probably already figures, she's protective of the relationship she has with Chase. As skewed and confusing as it is at the moment, as much of that _is_ her fault, she doesn't let herself show too much. She smacks his hand away from the basket and he looks at her in surprise. She shrugs and he smirks, stepping back.

"You look chipper," he says dryly.

She shrugs. "Thrilled."

"I took the last Lucky Charms."

She raises an eyebrow, perplexed and amused. It's never far away, the sudden sense of distraction, and suddenly, she lets herself forget that she's gone and that this is a fluke. It's just a fluke.

"You look really proud of that," is the only thing she can really think of saying to him, shrugging to hide whatever dip into vulnerability that she takes. It's predictable by now, even to her, and he seems to look forward to that.

"I am."

There's a short pause and he steps forward, eyeing her. Her teeth press into her lip and she shrugs, for no particular reason, to have something to do. He kind of chuckles as if he expects this too.

"You--"

She cuts him short, uncaring of what he's bring up. "No."

He seems surprised. She is, too--the force of her own voice is almost foreign, tipping in between her lips, and released as something completely obscure to her. He pushes it off and away and she's glad, settling a step back just to create the space.

"Clean break?" He's amused again and she reads over his mouth, the curl of a smirk. But it's not really a smirk, more just a product of indulgence.

Her fingers curl around her basket. "You make it sound so easy."

"You quit."

"It's a culture shock."

House actually laughs at her honesty, blunt and too fast. It makes her seem like she's a nervous child, indignant, and, as she's out of the hospital and the office, completely awkward. Things are starting to shift, but not completely so. There's a difference in the way he's suddenly watching her, neither here or there. She doesn't give herself the chance to study it; she won't because that's over. This is over and she's moving on. That's what she told him. That's what she should intend to keep, her promise to him. Her promise.

"I should go."

He raises an eyebrow. "Right."

"Okay," she mutters, half-waving.

She's bolting. He knows she's bolting. It's obvious enough how out of place all of this really is, how she reacted, and how she could potentially react. She's thinking too much of it, shouldn't be, and that's just more than enough than cue. Before she turns though, he stops and she stops to watch him. It's morbid curiosity, but they stand and stare at each other.

"I didn't know you were this close."

It implies _something_ , too much of something. He says it too slow and she knows she should get out of here before it turns into another list of things. She was supposed to go. And not look back.

Here he is. Here she is. Here is the idea of what _she_ did is. And facing it all, it's too much to really completely comprehend.

Yet, she's almost thoughtful. She looks down, shuffling her sneakers across the tiles and just lets it spill. "You only ever see what you want to see."

But he's gone.

* * *

She calls Chase later, doesn't bother with checking her voicemail, and wants to reestablish some form of what she's _striving_ to be instead of romanticizing on the things that are lost to her. That she wanted to lose.

She doesn't let herself think about House.

She thinks about asking Chase to come over, but doesn't ask him to come. She should. But that would be too much and she's more than happy just to listen to him, just to listen for a little bit.

He's in the middle of talking about his first interview, about how well it went, and how unnerving it was to have it go well. It seems like working for House has made them all sort of a punch line for medals, opportunities floating in the strangest of ways. She's got a couple of her own places to check out, but she doesn't know what to expect from any of it.

She cuts into Chase's conversation.

"If you go back to Arizona," she pauses, hesitating, "If you go _back_ , I'll seriously consider it. Crazy resumes and all."

It's too fast for her, but she says it anyway. She throws caution to the door and listens for surprised, getting nothing. She doesn't have the expectation, but she's never going to know much of anything unless she tries. She's not going to be here anymore and any feeling, any feeling at all has to go away.

She just doesn't work for House anymore. She needs to wake up.

Chase coughs. "Seriously?"

"I have a laptop."

She tries to downplay it, blushing and glad that he's not here to see her blush. But she listens to him laugh and it warms her just a little bit.

"You have a laptop."

Her lips curl. "I could always use yours."

"Ah," he says quietly, "but you like personal space."

It's an acknowledgment that she's trying or, at least, she hopes it's some form of something. She's not going to think about it anymore. Forwards. Backwards. Side to side. It's not really important.

She's done. She's done. She's really done.

"I do," she agrees.

It's almost too slow.


	2. Chapter 2

It gets a little easier. It does.

He says something like _it's too damn hot_ and she laughs, a week later, when they're separated by a phone and more than just a couple of states. He's in Arizona, finally, his interview on a Wednesday or Thursday, but he's planning to look around. There's no indication if he likes it either.

She's not going to think about it.

Cameron is getting used to this, slowly, and the idea of Chase being there does warm her too. The changes are going hand in hand with each other, as unnerving as it seems to be. It's not definite though and things are becoming settled, whether she's completely ready or not. It's the space of the moment, however, that gives her the slightest edge of distance and the comfort of _that_ distance.

It still makes her uneasy how many times she's got to remind herself of that, of the fact that he is there and she's thinking it has more to do with the idea that she's too used to going at it alone. She can't remember the last time she's really had a proper relationship, with dates and conversations and things like _trust_. She doesn't like going back to that spot, to a place of too much vulnerability. And she's yet to talk to him about these things. Giving Chase that _I'll try_ is a big thing for her, regardless of the fact that she has such a weight in the back of her mind.

She's not ready to give pieces of herself away. And there are still other things.

She's driving to Baltimore this morning, her bag slipping off her shoulder as she walks to her car and tries to steady herself with a coffee mug and her cell phone. It's still kind of dark, the lights that are scattered along the sidewalk and path still on.

"Stop laughing at _me_ ," she snarls.

Chase is half-asleep on the other line, probably grinning like an idiot. He's been there for a day or two and she's nowhere near the idea of missing him, just telling herself that it's okay if she does. It really is.

She likes hearing his voice.

But far from that, she's got this to think about now. She doesn't know what to make of the interview. It's kind of sudden, she thinks. But if she spends all this time thinking about that and rethinking the choices that she made, that she was done and finished with, it's going to drive her crazy.

Or, well, it is.

"Call me," he murmurs, "and let me know how it goes."

She almost laughs at herself, nodding, as if he can see her. She brushes her hair out of her eyes, moves to her car, and dumps her bag. It's going to be a decent drive, she hopes, and the scheduling of her interview in the afternoon might give her some time to herself. She's been thinking about looking around, maybe even stop at a couple of places. The idea of a different city is appealing and she likes the fact that she might be able to gradually step into it. She has no misconceptions about adjustment, seeing as it continues to hover over her.

But this feels new and she can't help it, she is excited about something akin to change. Something that she brought about.

She shifts onto the edge of the sidewalk, dropping her feet to the road and waiting for a car to pass her. "I will."

"Nervous?"

"I don't know," she watches the road again, crossing to the driver's seat. "I haven't had my coffee yet."

He laughs. Again, there's that quiet affection that he has for her. She feels herself fighting to smile, but then she relaxes and it's there. She can't help it. It's just new to her. After years of friends in a bar and a guy here and there, after wondering if she put herself in this strange place of expectation, he's just as new as everything else.

He knows that there are things that they're going to have to talk about it and she can say it--her _dead_ husband--it's just not something she's ready to share quite yet with anyone, not just him.

"It's not funny."

He laughs again. "Of course it is."

She lets herself relax into the driver's seat. A neighbor passes in their car. Honks. Waves. She waves back, sliding her hand over her wheel. Her keys rest on her leg and she's waiting for him to lead and say something.

She's not good at filling spaces. She's anxious and ready to go; thinking to herself is probably the least of the things that she needs to do now, but she doesn't want to think about him and the questions he's going to ask her.

Chase, she tells herself, not _he_ , not _him_.

"Careful driving," he murmurs.

She jumps. She rolls her eyes, trying to play it off, and steps away from the small, unnecessary drift. "I'm not a bad driver."

There's a pause and she listens to him. He breathes. In and out. She doesn't hear the television, but she imagines, like nights before, that he's left it on. He mutes it, a habit so that he can figuratively coax himself to sleep. She's never asked him why. He doesn't offer. It's one of them many things that stay that way.

Chase sighs quietly. "You know what I mean."

She lets herself have a small smile instead.

* * *

It's raining hard when she gets to Baltimore.

The collar of her blouse is a little wet, her jacket skewed off to the side in one of the conference chairs, and she hates waiting. She really just hates waiting. She's a few minutes early, the only one outside the office where somebody's supposed to come and see her.

It's not boding well for her nerves.

She's having an odd case of déjà vu, reminding herself that it's three years later instead of three years _before_. She's not a nervous kid, not as much and as intense as before, no longer eager to please. If there's anything to prove, she's got three years of battle scars to show for it.

Her nose wrinkles. And awful metaphors too, apparently.

It's too quiet in the conference room, the glass creating too much uneasy vulnerability. The assistant to the guy that's actually conducting the interview has nothing to do with the position she's applying for, just administrative and whatnot--Cuddy was much more hands-on than this, she remembers, and much more curious. She doesn't even remember waiting this long. She doesn't stick with the comparison though and she stands, more to steady her nerves than anything else.

She went with the ponytail, not her hair down, and it's sort of like facing an ethics firing squad doing these things. Dr. Harrison is a man and she's heard rumors, wanting to keep herself as far removed as--

See. There she goes again.

She straightens herself, walks around the table, and slips out of the glass conference room. Just for some air. She calms with the noise, peering over the railing into the pit of the first floor of the hospital. It's much smaller, few people scattering in and out of the doors. It's Catholic too. And she's already thinking about avoiding any subtle prods into how she feels about _this_ or _that_.

"So House, huh? _You_ actually survived House."

She turns, bewildered, and faces an older man. The lab coat that he wears sways forward, his hand jutting out as an offer. She sighs quietly, but takes it and shakes his hand easily.

"Yeah," she says quietly, "House."

The man smiles. "Good to see you, Dr. Cameron."

She gives him a curt nod. Dr. Harrison, she remembers, is an immunologist and this is one of those easy, hopeful 'back on the market' interviews. Chase laughed at her when she told him, but she's completely serious. It's been a while.

She just doesn't know how she's going to handle this yet.

Harrison is watching her with a mix of amusement and self-indulgence, offering her the first step forward and back into the conference room. She nods again and takes the seat that she had before, untouched water bottle and all.

"I'd expect you all--there were three of you, right?--as casualties," he says, chuckling. "From what I heard. Bodies _flying_ out the door. Carnage. Did people have to actually scrape you up from the monster's den?"

She bites back a snort and the desire to roll her eyes. It's almost too strange, really, to see how the outside world reacts to House. She's seen it all. Pissed off. More than pissed off. Pissed off to the point of hitting him. It's a range of flavors, she thinks dryly. But this is as obnoxious as it is pretentious and she knows what he's trying to do; the competition is there and people are always looking for ins to out House. She read the mail, remember?

Cameron shrugs. "Not exactly."

"What happened?"

And the question drops.

The question drops and she's thinking back to the car, sitting there as she drove down and even practicing. She _practiced_ what she was going to say. It's like she was twenty-one again and going on that first real job interview. The difference is, here, she's got actual answers. None of them are easy to structure and she shifts uncomfortably in her chair.

She tries to shrug casually and ignores Harrison's slip, his eyes to her breasts. She crosses her legs and reaches for her bottle of water.

Her fingers twist around the cap.

"It was time to go," she says, trying to be diplomatic, "and I'm ready to move on. I learned a lot and as much as I wanted to stay, you can't work for the guy forever."

"You wanted to stay?"

That surprises her. And him too--she bites her lip. It's been dropped. She stops and replays, wondering if she let any of the uncertainty that she had slip into her voice. Her mouth presses tightly and she shrugs, hiding herself under the guise of nonchalance.

"Not exactly."

His brow furrows. "But -"

"It's up and down, you know, it was exciting. But I want to practice medicine. I'm ready to practice medicine, to put into play what I learned and what I know I can do. I've moved on. It's time to really find my place."

She winces because she sounds too eager, too rehearsed, and she's replaying all those times in her head. Really though, all she wants to say is that she _doesn't_ want to go back and she has no intention of going back to do another round or two in Princeton. It'll be the same circle of things. She knows it.

She knows it, but she doesn't expect any sympathy or understanding from any of these people. They just don't know.

Sighing, she leans forward. She doesn't open her water. "The point is this: I worked three years under Dr. House. I worked my ass off. I spent three years learning how to do what I do objectively and securely. I'm an asset. I want to work--"

Harrison cuts her off. It's like a curt admonishment and she feels strangely secure, leaning back and watching. She knows it's not going well. She sounded too eager. She's not smiling enough. She's letting this drive her crazy, which is probably the bigger problem.

"Right." He nods.

 _Right_ , she thinks.

She tries to think of herself here, watching him as he actually opens a file--she didn't see him bring it in. Then again, she really wasn't paying much attention. Nerves or not, she watches the process unravel in front of her.

"We would be happy to have you," he finally says.

She nods slowly. "Thank you."

It's funny. It feels like she's sitting in front of the door to a members' only club, an old boys' club, whatever. It's not that bothers her per se, it's just an odd thing to feel. She's being reintroduced to the process, outside of whatever these last few years have been called.

She's waiting for the rude awakening, waiting, and it's just not here. And while that scares her a little bit, she doesn't let it get to her.

"I'm going to look everything over again," Harrison closes the file. She watches it shift back, right into his hand. "I'll call you. It's good to see you, Dr. Cameron."

He isn't stumbling, but she imagines him stumbling. It's having that kind of conversation with firsts and lasts, bosses and college and real jobs; everything is pitted in a pile that she's gone through herself, by herself, in the last several years.

It's no different, she thinks, than before.

She's quiet. "Thank you."

But she leaves the smiling out.

* * *

After the hospital, she finds herself wandering for coffee and a sandwich--chocolate, even, because she deserves the brief self-indulgence.

It wasn't that bad.

It was _that_ bad.

She can't decide and sort of processes it as she goes along, wandering the shops and looking for a place to settle. It's nice here, she thinks. She's not in the mood to really progress into things like _possibility_ and a _maybe_ , but it's no different than the place she was before.

The echo of her cell phone is swallowed by her purse. She snorts, dipping her hand in and not even bothering to check the number.

"It was awful," she blurts.

Chase laughs softly--it's about that time he calls anyhow and she knows she said she was going to call after, but really, she just wants to process this. By herself. As crazy as her self-analysis makes her, it's hers. Yet, there's nothing here to process and she really wonders why she can't let go of this. Why she's still thinking about Princeton instead of forward.

"You're a liar."

She snorts. "It was spectacularly _awful_."

He's laughing at her still. And she ignores him for the moment, her thoughts drifting back to a couple days ago. The supermarket. She doesn't really know what to call that, seeing House and reacting the way she did. Thin. Sort of out of it, in the strangest of senses. She supposes, in the end, she's kind of tying this and that together.

Her interview with him wasn't great either: _just make sure you wear tight jeans_ and _nice top_ was all proceeded by the coffee question. But that didn't bother her. She sort of expected the reputation and now, even now, she knows he enjoys having room to play in the myth that people form him to be.

But it still doesn't matter.

"I'm serious," she mutters, "It was like an introductory hell to a members' only club. With terrible jackets and penises--oh, wait. _Perfect_ for you."

Chase snorts and her lip curls. She feels the sense of him waiting for a _miss you_ , something she really doesn't have for him yet. If it makes any sense to her, being separated kind of appeases a bizarre excitement. She is looking forward to seeing him when he gets back.

At the same time, she's okay with him there.

It's the whole idea of a new relationship, circumventing all these sensations and idealisms that she really hasn't had the time or the care to deal with. He's really the first one that has called her out on a lot of her habits and she likes that, she likes the honesty.

She likes having that honesty around her.

"You're cute," he mutters.

She must've missed something, so she bites and says, "I know," lacing it with her weariness and amusement.

"That bad, huh?"

"Eh." She shrugs. "It's done."

There's an odd silence over the phone. She hears people. She doesn't ask where he is, in the hotel or walking around. She does remember the Mayo Clinic being good to her. At least, out west. She wonders why Arizona, too--he's never really said anything. But then again, she's never asked.

She thinks Chase is an asset as well, of a different variety. It was a stupid move to fire him by House, in such away, and she wonders, even thinking about it now, if House was just playing the option of taking their choices away. She wonders if it's even really about being read to let go.

She clears her throat. "How's Arizona?"

"It's good. It's really good."

It's quick. It's clean. And it's the first time, since the mess has happened, that she's really heard him sound like this. He's calm or maybe, it's just her. It seems like he's on his way, regardless of other options, to make a choice.

She's careful though, not knowing what he's ready to talk about. So slowly, she breathes and stops to drop to a bench.

There's a restaurant across the street for sandwiches anyway. She hopes. But her hand drops to her jacket, her fingers playing at the ends. They let these silences get them, she thinks.

Cameron sighs.

"You sound like you've made a decision," she purses her lips.

"Not completely."

That's too quick and she's obviously entered herself into a place she shouldn't be. Or maybe she's just projecting back onto him. She studies him, watches the tension in his hands, lift and fall. She shakes her head. She really doesn't know how to read him.

It was fun, you know, it was fun and there and ready for her to take. She told herself that she could do that, that looking for something more was never going to come to her. It's more of her not being ready, of wanting to be ready for something that she knows she can't handle like this.

And yet, she's here.

She's really here. She leans forward, her hand pressing over his. She's making an effort. He knows that she's making an effort. Her mouth turns and she pushes a little. Come on, she thinks, come on.

She tries again. "You sure?"

"Not completely," he repeats, now too quickly.

If he trusts her, if he wants to trust her, it's far from apparent now. She doesn't know what to think. She's convinced that he deserves more than this, but he's always deserved more than this.

But she really wonders why he's still here.

She doesn't know what to say. If there's anything to _really_ say, but the excuse is there and she says something about being ridiculously hungry.

He gives her another laugh, but it's strained.

* * *

There's an old message from Chase, driving home, laughing about dinner and a movie that they had before he left. She forgot about it, she thinks, but it passes traffic as she tries to remember it.

It was yesterday, she thinks. He's left in the morning or later. She doesn't know. The conversation is still fragmented from dinner days ago.

She thinks she fell asleep, anyhow.

Smiling a little to herself, her fingers brush over the radio and she changes the news to something else, for lack of anything to do. She wants to get home, but the roads are terrible and people just aren't moving.

She's moved past the interview, bad or good or whatever she thought it was, and it is done. It's over. She can keep telling herself that. It's the truth of the matter. She has another one in New York, in a few days, near Foreman. She wonders if she should give him a call, but then again, does she really want to sit around and watch him gloat and shove his surprise at her?

Off to the side, in the passenger seat, her phone begins to vibrate. She peeks curiously, blinking at the _office_ tag. She hasn't erased it, even though she's pretty sure she did a few days ago. Her nail slides over the cover. She's hesitant and though, it's instinctive, she drops the phone back. She watches the second ring and third, dipping into the fourth. It isn't guilt that she tastes, but she doesn't let move into any other feeling. She sighs and reaches for the phone, knowing that she's going to fall into some sense of regret anyhow.

"Hello?"

There's a snort. "You answered."

"Uh. Yeah," she mutters dryly. "Usually do."

A loud, obnoxious _crunch_ snaps across the line. She jolts up, her eyes wide. Her ear is ringing and the guy in front of her doesn't move when the cars in front of him do. She curses under her breath and the crunching gets louder.

Traffic stops again. She's going to be miserable, getting home.

Rolling her eyes, she shakes her head. "Lucky charms?"

"Cornflakes." There's another loud crunch.

"Boring."

She's absent, shifting around in her seat and moving away from the fact that House is on the other line. She swears she's going to be numb when she gets home too. She regrets not taking the train down or something; it's supposed to offer a distraction. She was supposed to be thinking about things. Then again, she always does this to herself. It's never the right moment, it's never planned properly, and half the time, these decisions are bordering her impulsiveness.

House cuts in. "Are we actually having a conversation?"

"Could be."

She's confused, but doesn't bother address it. She doesn't ask why he called, half-expecting him to trap her into some piece of conversation. But she listens to him and knows he's listening back to her. She didn't give him a dig. She was oddly detached and unnerved seeing him out that one day after the fact. She let go, she tells herself, she let it go.

But he's calling. And she answered.

She's no stranger to any of this, to the game and the game that she plays right back with him. It's more with herself. The sense of attachment and detachment she has with people and her relationships drive her further to play.

She bites first. "Why are you calling?"

"You're not actually an idiot, Cameron."

It's floating between them, disguised as a compliment with strings. Although, she's pretty sure he's insulting her too. She's learned to pass it and move on, lingering only gets her into trouble without any doubt.

But she's not moving on.

She doesn't feel like it and here, now, she's sort of unraveling with the wrong person, with only a phone line between the two of them. It makes her sit up a little straighter, her fingers tighter around the wheel. He can pick up on these things. Thinking about it too much makes her more vulnerable than anything. She doesn't know what she's thinking, if she's thinking at all

"Really?" she says finally. The tightness in her voice is thicker, obvious.

She can almost see him rolling his eyes, sitting there and leaning back in whatever chair he's sitting in. "You were at my supermarket."

"It doesn't have your name on it."

"Nice."

It's too quiet and his amusement becomes more apparent as the silence begins to filter between the two of them. It's completely different between him and her than everyone else. She feels her vulnerabilities again, right there, right in front of him. It's like he sees them and toys with the idea of pushing them.

But he never does. He never goes far enough and that's really where the problem starts. It's almost as if he's a child, poking at the water and debating whether or not he wants to get wet. It's the perspective that makes her frown, that's always made her tired, but it's the same self-analysis that she applies to herself.

Half the time, she wonders why and she doesn't want to wonder why anymore. Why did she pick up the phone? Why does she even bother?

She's just as curious as he is. She can't hide that.

Out of nerves, her fingers curl around the radio knob again. She jumps when the music snaps on, loud, over a car horn and somebody cursing out the window.

"ABBA, Cameron?"

She's blushing in embarrassment, her _screw you_ on the tip of her tongue. She doesn't indulge him though, taking a deep breath.

"I'm _changing_ the station. It's on scan."

"Uh-huh."

Finally, though, she sort of breaks and appeases her curiosity. He usually doesn't call. He won't call. And if he did, it would be for something that he needs. It's predictable patterns. It's what she's learned.

"What do you want?"

He doesn't give it to her. "I called the wrong phone number."

"Right."

There's a pause and one of them moves, something dropping for him, and Cameron is distracted briefly by the road. She can see the tolls coming up, fingers the change off to the side in the ashtray that she never uses, and just really wants to get home.

"Did you drive?" He startles her.

"What?"

"Did you _drive_?"

It makes her nervous. There's a possibility of this taking any direction--she isn't stupid, it's going to fall and she's going to let it fall because still, _still_ there some old habits that she doesn't know how to tame.

"Uh--where?"

He's dry. "To your interview?"

"Are you checking up on me?"

She's surprised, too, really surprised. She figured that he knew that they were going to go and go somewhere, cutting all and most ties because in his eyes, they left him. He's predictable too, in that sense, and she gears up for some measure of a fight. She expects the irritation.

"No." He's smirking, she can tell. "But you just told me you had one."

There is an odd sense of regard between them and a little regret. It was different. It was completely different for her, standing there and watching him and saying the words _I'm done_. She meant them. No matter what she tells herself. She meant them and doesn't think much more than.

The regret is his and that makes her pause.

She's quiet. "I'm going to hang up now."

"No, you're not. You're entirely too predictable for that."

Her eyes roll. "Reverse psychology. Cute."

Admittedly, it's nothing about nothing. The whole conversation is bizarrely out of place and uneasy. She detects nothing from him, no indication of what he's thinking. But stop _it_ , she tells herself. A few more minutes and she knows she'll be picking away, right or wrong, on what the possibilities mean.

She promised she was going to stop this.

"Stop flirting with me, Cameron," he murmurs.

Her thumb slips over the back of the phone. She says nothing. She won't let it become anything. Not any more.

And as childish as it'll seem later, she hangs up the phone.

* * *

At home, she orders pizza as if it were a whim.

It's the only thing she can properly function around today, checking messages and emails and trying to establish a sense of routine. She needs it. Just some small inclinations towards predictability.

There's nothing from Baltimore either. There's no message, no email, and no random call since she's gotten home. She's not setting her heart on it and it's not like she went there to, but at the same time, she needs to get a job.

She needs to get out.

Picking up the phone, she calls Chase. He doesn't answer and she leaves a message, dismayed because she was looking forward to talking to him. She doesn't know if she's going to tell him though. Twice, now, _twice_ she's talked to House and it feels so strange. She's detached and still, still at the same place she was, maybe even weeks ago when she was still working for him.

She sighs. Should she?

Again, she's faced with the other people in this. There are other people in this. Whether she likes it or not, she does share something with Foreman and with Chase, and these sentiments just don't belong to her. It's just strange to think that this has really winded itself around her and that she's let it--that, that right there imposes the habits that she carries and the motivations that she tries to stay away from. She's promised herself, time and time again, that it's going to get better. That she's going to get better at this.

She's doing a terrible job.

When Chase does call back, a few minutes later, the pizza's still not here. She's irritated and sighs, dipping back as she listens to him talk about the facilities that he saw today. He's excited. She tries to be excited for him, but she's jealous, too. She wants to be able to go and embrace it, to take the job of finding a new place like he did. It's so strange, but she drifts back into thinking about the first, the real first time that she decided to leave. The sacrificial lamb-- _God_ , she almost rolls her eyes at the naiveté that she had.

"You're quiet."

She laughs softly. "Just sinking into my couch--don't worry."

But it slips.

"House called."

There's more than just a pause between them, a mix of awkwardness and tension rising. Her brow furrows and she really hasn't asked him, yet again, how he really feels about it. She remembers the diner, the first time, and then nonchalance he displays when dealing with being fired. It's insensitive of her and she winces--how stupid is she? She doesn't know what to say though and she's fumbling to recover or, if anything distract.

He sighs loudly. This is anger.

His voice is distant, tense, and he's obviously trying to keep himself away from this conversation. Objectively, she thinks. It's got to be objectively.

"Weird."

She sighs, regretting it, and the one word sums up too much; it's not that she doesn't want to understand, she wasn't ready to ask and it--

Stop it, she tells herself.

"Yeah. A little."

The silence again leaves nothing to be desired and she's stuck wondering what he's thinking, if she's going to have to be worried. She listens to Chase sigh again, settle, and she hears the television turn on. By now, she's starting to wrap herself around the idea of routine and picking up _his_.

It's between a little and too much and she's left with the disposition of lying to herself, of course, because that's what she does best.

"Sorry," she murmurs. It doesn't mean much.

He clears his throat and she can't even begin to imagine what he must look like. She can taste the disappointment from her to him and from him back to her, a full circle of defeats. Different reasons, different cycles of repetition, and she's good at this. Maybe, he's right. Maybe, it's time to get out of here. To move away from all of this and really, just really try.

"It's fine."

She fingers the sleeve of her sweater, trying not to pay attention to growing split of ease that they had before. "You sure?"

There's a knock on her door. The pizza, she hopes. He seems to hear it too and she gets _yeah_ and _I'll call you later_ like it's nothing else. She knows she's screwed something up. It's small. It's rounded. But it's there, this one is just there.

"Yeah," she murmurs, "okay."

But she's talking to a dead line. Her phone drops over the cushions of one of her chairs, bouncing and settling face down. She feels kind of silly, going to the door and getting her pizza. She fumbles with the change, with a _thank you_ , and then some. The door shuts awkwardly and she doesn't have any wine, she thinks.

She holds the pizza box, her back pressed against the wall.

It leaves a sense of uneasiness with her, the bright, bitter taste of acceptance nowhere near an easy pill to swallow. She shouldn't have said anything to him.

 _I was ready_ , she thinks.

But that's for something else.


	3. Chapter 3

This, by all counts, is a terrible idea.

She can taste it. Her restlessness is a prelude to something stupid, something big, and she's trying too hard to focus on the smaller things.

The things that she can control.

She doesn't sleep much, cleaning the kitchen for the better part of the night and migrating to the couch. She's still upset with herself, with what she said to Chase and what she allowed herself to really fall into. It's what she does. She remembers telling herself something like _you should really go to bed_ and _in a few minutes_ , but she tells herself that there's Leno and she can do another couple minutes of trying to calm herself down.

When she wakes up, it's after seven and her alarm clock is wailing, almost muffled, from her bedroom. She groans. There's an odd tension in her neck, pulling around her shoulders and down her back. It's why she never falls asleep on the couch, from time to time it became a habit after a bad day, but it's not something that she does. For a minute though, she lies on the couch and sighs loudly. She's feeling sorry for herself and it's making her feel like a complete and utter idiot.

It's the restlessness, she has to say. It has to be. She's never spent this much time obsessing over these things. This isn't what she does. It's the strangest feeling, coming face to face with all these things. She has the time now and that, in the mounting perspective, should've occurred to her.

She should've planned better.

She should've planned better, sat down, and thought about this. Foreman gave himself time. Chase didn't, but Chase was ready to go and even more so than she was. It's self-indulgent, but the jealousy is starting to rise again and she just wants to step out of this, away from this, and be in a position where she can be genuine again and say that she's okay with all of this. It's what she said to them _all_ and it's almost embarrassing that she's thinking about it this way.

She's _going_ to be okay. But it feels too much like a reach.

It scares her.

"You're an idiot," she mutters.

She feels impulsive again, her fingers stretching and picking up the phone from her coffee table. Her thumb rolls over the numbers and she thinks about it, but doesn't do it. She shouldn't. She wouldn't. The television is still on and she glances over, peering at the infomercials. It's after seven, probably the cooking channel then instead of Leno.

But why does it matter what she remembers? The little things, the big things, and she winds her hands around her phone.

And again, "you're an idiot," slips out of her mouth, one more time after that, and then another. She rubs her eyes, letting the phone rest on her chest. She picks it up again, stares at it, and then scrolls to the number.

It's just a number, she thinks. It's just a number.

And she calls.

It doesn't hit her that she's calling and that there's ringing on the other line. When it does, she snaps back to close and tosses the phone to the side. Is she crazy? What's getting into her? Sitting up, she presses her hands into her head and stretches back. She should do something. Something else.

Standing this time, she moves around the living room. Things are clean--she did that last night--and things are settled. Laundry is done. Her resume is done. Everything is done. She doesn't know what she's thinking.

It's panic. It's just panic.

She starts for her books, her fingers lining each spine as she paces. Back and forth. Back and forth. She stops at the pictures, picking up one of her parents and her brother. It's been awhile since she's seen them. Maybe, she should look west again. Think about Chicago. Her mom would like her closer.

She doesn't know if she wants to be though.

Her phone rings and she sighs, turning and slipping to go and grabs it. She's absent, staring at the picture of her family again. She picks it up, cradles it and snaps her _what_ back to the other person on the line.

There's a chuckle.

She tenses, trying again. "What?"

"Chipper."

"Oh."

It's unsettling her how passive she is to hearing his voice at first. Like she's expecting him. Like she wants to expect him. It's making her more than uneasy, sitting here and thinking about it. But what else is there to do?

She won't let herself out of this. It's not a rut. It's not even a habit. She tries to think about the positive things, slightly aware that she's losing it in front of him. She can feel it. She doesn't say anything though. The silence is too obvious. She can hear him, walking maybe? She doesn't place much meaning in it. Sitting down again, she rubs her eyes and she's not going to give him the satisfaction of a start.

"You called," he says.

The office, she thinks. "I--"

"You _called_."

"I did."

He grunts. "So open your door."

She jolts up. What? It kind of passes over her. She stays sitting. Waits for him to repeat what she just heard, what she _thinks_ he's said. But he doesn't and she doesn't ask the questions. How? Why? What are you doing here? Instead, she does stand and relents. She walks to the door, still cradling the phone. Her fingers press against the wood. She doesn't touch the knob, but her knuckles strain.

Great.

Just great. Just what she needs. And before she can give herself the benefit of the doubt, before she can say _fine_ , she opens the door.

They've been here before.

They're staring at each other, him in amusement and her--well, she's not going to even bother with thinking about it. His hand wraps around his cane. He shifts, pressing it into the door. She bites her lip, a distraction to cover the fact that she's got no clue what to say to him. Or ask him why.

"You're here," she finds instead, lamely. "At my door, in my apartment building."

He rolls his eyes, stepping forward. She tenses, her hand wrapping around the knob, but he slips around her before she can really say much of anything. He brushes by her hip, his hand loose. She's bewildered, that much she allows herself to have, and turns to see him square himself in the middle of her living room.

The door shuts. She turns her back to it.

He sighs. "You called."

"This is strange."

It stumbles out, more about the surprise than anything else. She studies him, but he turns away from her. He starts to wander, just a little bit, passing over her magazines on the coffee table. She tenses when he goes for the stack of papers, the offers and the interviews, resumes that cover them as well. It's something that he would go for and she watches, oddly enough, as he stops.

His hand hovers. But he pulls back.

"You were at my supermarket."

She shakes her head, feigning annoyance. Her heart's pounding, but she tries, she really tries to ignore it. "Can't let go?"

"Well, you know me."

He starts pacing around her place, a little more, and obscures himself under the archway of the hall, that leads right to her bedroom. It's a small hallway, narrow, and covered with some pictures. Nothing of her family. Nothing of her friends. But he stops and turns back around to face her, waving his hand.

"It's not what I expected."

"You've seen it before," she murmurs, curious.

"The front door. The archway. The books, a little," there's a pause and he shrugs too. "But you don't invite people to your place. Except when you're inebriated and high on crystal meth. Maybe I should bring the good alcohol next time."

It dulls and she almost laughs. It's not funny, but the attempt at it was almost. He was waiting for a flinch, but she shrugs. She's convinced it is because she's still here and in a way, she suspects that he wouldn't go and approach Chase. She knows she's the much more accessible deal out of the two of them. Maybe that's why he's here.

Information. She was the last to go, the last to stand in his office and smile her goodbye. But she's having every bit as hard of a time that she desperately wanted to avoid. She's just good at hiding these things.

She tries to play it off. "Well, hey. I'm great too."

"You quit."

"I did."

She's wary.

"And you're okay with quitting." He moves to her, right in front of her, at the door. There's an edge of space between them. Her hands curl. His hand just twists over the curve of his cane.

Her lips are too dry. "Yeah."

"You're okay with quitting."

"Yeah," she says slowly, "I'm okay. I'm here. It's a little weird. But I don't want to work for you anymore. It's done. _Done_."

There's no eye roll. There's no snort. But he steps closer, too close, peering down at her in amusement. That amusement isn't as heavy as usual and it fades, letting something linger. What she sees unnerves her, and she finds herself pulled to the intimacy of some strange gesture. If it can be called a gesture, him being here with her. There is a motive. There's always a motive. That she knows.

He shrugs. "I get it."

"Well, you're here."

"True."

But he follows it with nothing more, not yet, still studying her. She feels herself tense, grow uncomfortable, and cross her arms over her chest. His eyes are moving over her, slowly, and at length. She waits for a smirk, but it doesn't come and her vulnerabilities face her with a blank nudity. Her sense of expectation feels a little too awkward and she pushes herself away from the door, away from any chances of trouble.

"There's a bar," he says suddenly.

She looks up. "There are a lot of bars."

There's an invitation here and it stops her, for the moment, as she stares at him incredulously. The air is light, there's no feel of any tension, and she kind of unsettles herself with the anticipation that she has. It's thick in her throat, her hands dropping to her hips and then her sides.

She shouldn't. She won't. She can't.

He presses forward. "One drink."

"Right," she murmurs. "Right."

She doesn't believe him. She never has, but at the same time--it's an offer. It's an offer to stop this. To end this. To put this all behind her, really behind her. But her uncertainty brings up something more. Does she really trust him that much? And she's assuming, she's still assuming about all of this and how it plays.

"It's twenty minutes from here. Take a cab. It's by Sullivan's."

Cameron swallows. "Sounds ominous."

He gives her something like a smile, his mouth twisting into something there and then gone. He mirrors her then and she feels it, the indignation of curiosity and play. He doesn't think she'll do it, that much she can read on his face, in the tension that seems to come and go, still surrounding them. "Maybe it is."

It's out though and she watches as he shuts the door behind him.

* * *

She almost doesn't go.

For a brief, split second, she _almost_ doesn't go. There are things to be done still, she tries, and there are friends that she could catch up with. No one from the hospital, which, if anything, would be good for new faces.

But then she's in her bedroom, in her closet, and actually looking for something to wear. She doesn't know why she's staring; standing here, when there's going to be nothing that comes out of this. There's never anything that comes out with any of their conversations, at any moment of time.

She gets dressed.

She assumes and doesn't care, her jeans, her boots, and her blouse all engineered for blending in. She wonders if she'll regret it, going there, standing and seeing him. She wonders if he's really going to be there at all, if she's going to be that stupid and actually thinks that he is.

Her gullibility forms in the strangest of ways, rotating thinly through these moments, particular moments where she should have some semblance of control. She thought it was getting better and maybe, just maybe it was.

But whatever, right?

She's here. It's her own curiosity and adding any sense of nonchalance might help her edge away from it, just a little bit. So she thinks.

Dressed, she sweeps around her apartment. More to prolong time being spent outside, thinking about what she's going to walk into--she doesn't lie to herself, she's tired of lying to herself, falling back into that old habit.

But she wants to know.

Her phone is still on the coffee table and she tries not to feel guilty looking right at it. She hopes that Chase won't call. She feels guilty about the thought. Not completely though--it sort of rises and falls, dipping around her and teasing. The guilt will come and she imagines it'll be every bit as brutal as before.

She's predictable with House. It's an admission, rare as it comes and goes, as desperately as these moments between the two of them come. Some rare. Some not. Some that have no business between the two of them at all. But he doesn't need to know.

He really doesn't need to know.

At the last minute, she fights herself on whether to leave her phone or not. It's easy to lie. Easy to say _hey, I wasn't feeling well_. Her stomach twists and this completely unfair, she thinks, but then again, all she did was say--

Don't, she thinks. _No_ excuses.

They're not at that stage where he can pick up on these slips that she has. Or maybe, he is. Maybe, he doesn't want to. He being Chase, she reminds herself. _Chase_. That prompts the phone in her hand then, figuring that if it rings, it rings. She'll ignore it in her purse.

So she decides, then, on a cab. It seems more of an easy escape and the last time she drove--she doesn't even think about it anymore. The date that really seemed to spin a tighter hold than it need too. History, really, has never really had any place for this, for them, and it bothers her.

Advantages and disadvantages come and go. Maybe, it's why they're still here.

She counts in the cab. Ignores the music. Tries everything and anything to distract herself from thinking _God_ and _yeah, this is a mistake_. She's never objective with her curiosity though and she thinks, more than anything, that's why it's so easy for him to come like this and for her to follow.

But what happened, she wonders, what happened to the person that stood in the office and basically said that she was done?

That she's not coming back?

Cameron doesn't even notice when they arrive, her hand sinking into her purse to grab money to pay. Her phone remains still and she breathes, slipping out and moving onto the sidewalk. Sullivan's is relatively painless. She thinks she's been here before, with her parents, no less, but she's too busy with her nervous distractions. In and out, she weaves, in and out and all the time.

Walking inside, she nods and says no to a table as she passes the smiling hostess. She heads to the bar. It's crowded, thinly-lit. There are couples. A group of guys eye her as she wedges in and she rolls her eyes, shaking her head. She moves deeper into the bar, her hand curled around her bag and spots him, finally at the far, far end. He's in a booth.

She doesn't stop and stare, but he raises a glass to her as he catches her gaze, midway, and she turns herself to the side. She takes a deep breath. She should go. She should really go.

But she's here.

She reaches him, her fingers gripping her bag. He's watching her too closely.

"You're here."

She raises an eyebrow. "You came to my place," she says, "and there was a weird invitation. Maybe this is morbid curiosity."

House smirks and she drops into the booth, her bag skewed by her hip. She shrugs out of her jacket, crossing her legs underneath the table. She doesn't order anything, but House waves a hand and there's suddenly a glass in front of her, a grinning waiter, and an order for a bottle.

She eyes it with a frown.

"This is about it being on your terms, isn't it?" She sort of blurts it, watching uneasily as her drink is poured. She takes a deep breath, pushing the glass back towards him after the waiter leaves. She doesn't want it, she thinks. She has questions and if he's got questions, she's going to play her way too.

He shrugs. "Could be."

She studies him quietly, leaning back into the booth. His fingers play over the top of both glasses and his gaze drifts off to the end. There's a sense of indulgence that she has now, watching him like this. Even though she has no idea what's going, why she's here, and why he asked her--it's almost as if it's relaxed.

It's selfish too, on both sides. But this is what he's given to her.

"So how does it feel?"

"What?" She blinks, rolling her shoulders up. There seems to be something she's completely missing.

" _Freedom_."

He's mocking her, but she ignores it. It's strange to her, sitting here. She picks at her jacket, ignoring the rush around déjà vu. He's the one staring today, tonight in the bar, and they're much more crowded than before. She doesn't like that. There's no sense of comfort, facing the edges of her own privacy as he tries to figure her out. Out in the open, it's easier to hide the rest of herself.

Not like this though. Never like this.

Sighing, she just asks this time. "Why did you ask me here?"

"I didn't."

"What are you, _two_?"

"Defensive." His shoulders seem to relax. "Cute."

She rolls her eyes.

They're quiet again and Cameron takes to watching someone else, ignoring the fact that House is still watching her. She picks people out, looks at the couples, and feels almost too indifferent. She wonders if _trying_ is really all the problem she has with being someone, if she's not to where she should really be at this point.

It's not fair. Not her, but to--

She should've said something, she thinks. She follows it with _stop it_ and _shut up_ , almost ready to lose her mind.

But House leans forward, too forward, his foot tapping against her leg. She snorts, shaking her head and looks back to him. He hesitates on purpose, drawing out her discomfort; she doesn't feel it, but she imagines that there's some obvious indication that whatever point he's going to prove, it's going to work.

"Did you really quit for solidarity? Self-righteousness at its finest."

She doesn't flinch. "You could've mocked me on the phone."

"So much more fun in person."

She leans forward, almost angry--but she can't let herself be angry. She can't do that because this will unravel faster than she can grasp any sense of dignity. Still, she can't help herself and her fingers curl around the edges of the table.

"Why aren't you ready to let go?"

He slows, his mouth lining briefly. He doesn't ignore her and it seems to strain the air around them, thickening as he settles back. It's a small pause though and the corners of his mouth rise again, his tongue sliding along his lip. "You're not ready to play that game."

She's quiet, watching him. What do _you_ know?--she wants to ask him, she wants to face this with some sort of certainty, as insane as it is. There's also a rise of something else, undaunted by the fact that she keeps bringing the edges of her own discomfort to surface.

"You don't know what I'm ready for," she says quietly.

It's a dare. His mouth turns. It feels like these little cuts in her grasp of things are rising here and there, her sense of self spilling forward. She's hesitant, rightfully so, and for a moment, she lets herself believe that she can stick with the sensation of her own vulnerability.

She waits for him to say something, to say anything to give her a pity clue. But he stays as he is, as he's always been, watching her. It comes. It goes and finally, his hand pushes the glass to the side.

She swallows. "It's getting late."

"It's eleven o'clock."

She doesn't care. She's been here long enough. She's panicking quietly. She's trying not to show it, but she's uneasy and he's had a drink and they're--she doesn't know. She doesn't know what he's thinking and that gets to her. There's no medicine to practice. There's no medicine to practice, no puzzle, no other fellows, no mess that's been made that ultimately distracts her.

He's quiet, leaning forward again. "Won't he wonder?"

"We're not dating," she blurts.

This earns something that might be a smile, his mouth slow and lazy. She swallows and it's not fair. It's not fair. But she's put herself here. And it makes her--she doesn't even know what to feel--detached and almost empty if she thinks about it.

But House is slow. "Then what are you doing?"

"I don't know."

She tries to stand, but he's up before her. His hand brushes against hers, over and onto her wrist. His fingers curl around her skin slowly, keeping her close. She shivers as his thumb strokes her palm, around each line on her skin. She doesn't know what to say, how to breathe, and tries weakly to find an excuse.

But he steps into her space.

They've been here before too. His mouth kind of turns, into what she doesn't care, but he leans down. She doesn't know if he'll kiss her and when his mouth passes hers, she lets herself sigh a little and drops her shoulders.

"Liar," he breathes, his mouth close to her throat.

The tension in her shoulders roll forward and she's resting lightly against him. Her hand is still dangling in his, his fingers tight around her wrist. He drops it and his palm peels over her hip.

"You sure you didn't follow him?"

It's the bigger question, whether it has anything to do with him or her and whatever this is, doesn't matter. He's quiet, coarse, and she's trying to find something to say, anything to say. She doesn't have anything though and stumbles over a "Why do you care?" as she feels his mouth brush against the bridge between her neck and her throat.

House's mouth is too warm. "I'll be disappointed."

She stays quiet. She stays and wonders and waits for the revelations of sanity that she promised herself. Where's the guilt? Where's the rationality?

Why isn't her phone ringing?

She breathes. "Liar."

He pulls back to look at her then, his eyes dark. She doesn't pull away, there's no sense of wanting to. She's fascinated again, facing him again, and it just breaks her right here.

"You're a liar," he says.

She kisses him hard.

* * *

There's a cab again.

She thinks she starts to say something, but he's kissing her this time. Hip to hip, his palm spreads under her jacket and she's vaguely aware of the radio, of the cabbie snorting, and her fingers curling in his shirt.

She doesn't think about this, the idea of this, and for first time, it is nothing more than instinct. It's just instinct. A part of her is looking for that selfish break again, right here, with the same sensation of being in his office that day. She wants the break. She wants no explanations and she doesn't have to say anything.

He won't want to hear it. She doesn't want him to hear it.

Her mouth still opens against his, her fingers sliding into his hair as she pulls him closer. Her tongue slides into his mouth, rolling under his and sighing softly. The sensation is making her crazy, the slow, sudden push of things between them. She can feel his fingers slide under her shirt, his thumb stroking the patch of skin over her jeans.

She tries to break away, breathless.

He growls _don't_ and they're kissing again, Cameron making a shift and almost into his lap. There's nothing. No alcohol. No second push. She's just straining, wanting, and needing to prove back to him that this can be--

This can be _what?_ She stops herself.

He smirks into her mouth. "Well, hi."

"What are we doing?"

He doesn't answer and they're at his place, not hers. There's a twist of guilt inside of her, small and subtle, promising, but he's not letting her think, his hand curling around hers. It's ending, she thinks, it's finally ending.

"Don't ruin it," she breathes.

There's a dry smile from him and for a moment, he looks every bit as bewildered as she is. They sort of stop and he pays for the cab, money from her purse. She rolls her eyes and he pulls her forward, glancing back.

"You shutting up?"

She nods. "I'm shutting up."

It's the first time she really wishes she did drink something; the excuse of alcohol is petty and almost cheap. Her mind is reeling and she follows him, ducking as they step inside his place.

She blinks. It's been now and then that she's been at his place, really been at his place. She stands and feels like she shouldn't be here, not because of the obvious, but because of the fact that she knows that she still has feelings.

She still has feelings.

It's always going to be there and she wishes she could say that it has nothing to do with any of this; maybe, for now, it doesn't, but at the same time she can't separate the fact of the matter--it's still why she's here.

She lets go of his hand and steps deeper inside, like he did earlier at her place. No stretch of thought. Nothing. Her leg brushes against the coffee table and she sits, sinking into the couch. Her lips are still warm. She can still feel his mouth along her throat.

"Good," he says, "about the shutting up."

She nods. "Yeah. Good."

The difference between now and then, him and her, is that they won't talk about it. Maybe it'll surface in a strange twist of misunderstanding or, in this instance, the sudden need to completely break away from him.

But she wants him.

She also wants him free of consequences and thoughts. The entire idea of it is stupid and silly and so many turns of bad ideas. But here she is. Here he is. Neither of them are going to stop.

He kisses her first this time.

His hand is threaded though her hair, twisting as she loses her jacket. She feels her shoulders roll and she's pulled closer, right into his lap. She hears a hiss. It's awkward. It's fumbling and at one point, she's standing with her mouth over his. She's trying to get comfortable, but he won't let her draw back, and the tension in her neck is rising.

" _House_ ," she growls.

He laughs against her mouth. His fingers are at her jeans then, pulling at her hips. There's a pop and a button, something, she just doesn't care to think. She doesn't care at all, following the pressure of his hands over her skin. She's too vulnerable, too easy to relent to all of this. His mouth presses against her stomach, his lips sliding over her skin, and she gasps, her fingers curling his hair.

She doesn't want him like this. She wants him like this. She doesn't want to think about how he could be mocking her; it's going to haunt her, that much she knows.

She's stopped caring.

" _Fuck_."

Him or her, it doesn't matter. He doesn't laugh and she's pulling her hands around his jacket, her fingers curling and pushing it off his shoulders. They move to his chest, to the shirt, and she's pulling at buttons. He pushes her hand away though and then she's being pulled down to him, her knees pressing into the couch.

"Don't _ruin_ it," he breathes. His cane drops to their feet. "Don't _ruin_ it."

It means nothing. Maybe it does. But she's stepped into this and her moan thickens over the rise of his hands, over her breasts and her shirt. His thumbs roll over her nipples, pressing against the fabric. He's taking what he can and she's letting him, suddenly shying away from any idea of holding back.

He says it again, "don't ruin it," and it becomes a mantra in her head. Her mouth slides over his. Don't ruin it. Don't ruin it.

"I never do," she gasps.

She forgets to breathe. Or maybe, the moment's passed already, few and far between any sense of expectation. His mouth sighs over her throat, the pressure slow.

She's waiting. They don't say anything to stop.


	4. Chapter 4

After seven, there's no ringing.

Her eyes open slowly. Her shoulder is pressing into the pillow, a slight curl of discomfort brushing along her arm. She doesn't move, her eyes blurry and heavy. For a moment, she does stay and wait. There's a routine, her routine. She doesn't hear the clock. She doesn't hear the television. She doesn't hear her neighbors rushing the hallway outside.

There are cars, traffic. There's a sigh behind her.

A hand presses over her hip and the sheet that seems to cover it, right into her skin. The warmth is familiar and she's thinking _oh god_ right as her mouth slams shut. Her eyes are wider. Her heart is pounding, thick against her breast. She doesn't know how they got here from the couch. She doesn't know if she really wants to know at all.

It's coming back too fast, way too fast.

She's naked, the sheets skewed over her hip, between her legs, and twisted over her ankles. He doesn't press too close and she wonders if he's awake, waiting for her to say something to him.

She doesn't know how.

There's a muffled ring from outside the door, slipping under the two of them. She feels his fingers start to stroke her hip, his thumb brushing up and down and she's thinking, well, _maybe_ he is. She tries to ignore the ring, the fact that she can hear it, and indulge a little. He's touching her. She's letting him touch her.

"You getting that?"

His mouth is too close to her shoulder, too low, and she feels a mix of embarrassment flush across her cheeks. He can hear it too.

"Seriously," he grumbles. "Go."

She doesn't say anything, slipping away and under his hand. It doesn't hit yet. It doesn't hit and she's waiting for it. There's a snort, but she ignores him. Her mind twists with motivations and appropriate ends, this none of the sort. She doesn't know what to feel or how to feel about it, but ends up grabbing House's shirt.

It's what's there.

It's thin in her fingers and she doesn't hear the ring anymore, slipping into the shirt and buttoning a few of the buttons. There's one missing. She almost laughs and ducks into the hallway. There's her bag. There's another one of his shirts, cotton and no buttons. She remembers pulling it off. There are her jeans by the door. His jacket. She finds her phone scattered in a corner, under the doorway of his bathroom. She picks it up and stares at the _missed call_. Should she?

Should she?

Sinking down to the floor, she picks it up and presses the phone to her mouth. She's still waiting for that guilt, the churning of all her sensibilities. She can remember most of it--the way his hands pushed over her skin and the way she reacted so _fiercely_ to him. What scares her most is that it can happen again, that she would let it, and whether or not there are consequences, her mind has more than just sheltered herself away from the idea of any of them. It's opened it again.

Her eyes close.

The phone is to her ear then and she waits, listening to the rings on the end. One. Two. Three--

"Hey."

"Hi," she breathes.

Chase tells her to hold on. She imagines him in the hotel, wonders if she should've gone and looked around too. It could've been a vacation. It would've been safer. She can't remember the last she's had a real vacation outside of Christmas dinners and other holidays.

She listens to him muffle the phone, murmuring. He's breathless when he comes back and she tries to think of him grinning.

"You okay?"

Her lips curl. "Fine."

"Dinner tonight?"

She's feeling more than dismayed, less than detached, and completely confused. She stands, her fingers sliding along the wall. She doesn't answer, stepping away from the bathroom and the view of the open door of House's bedroom. She moves to the couch and Chase is waiting for an answer. She remembers. He's coming back tonight. He's coming back to Princeton.

Her eyes close. She ignores her bra draped over the arm of the couch.

"Allison."

It unnerves her, she thinks, how easy it is for him to drop her name like that. It comes and goes; he seems to understand that it gets to her, but still, when he does it there's this expectation. She doesn't know what to do with the expectation. Not like this. Not this close.

She wants him to stop.

She breathes. "I--yeah. Sure."

Remember, she tells herself, remember. She promised she'd make an effort--of course, it didn't count coming here and--

Yeah. _Effort_.

She rubs her eyes. "Italian?"

"You hate Italian."

His amusement is clear and she can't help herself, she laughs softly. It feels nervous and she's listening for suspicion. She wonders if she'll ever tell him. If she should. If he'll know. But what is it going to accomplish? The two of them are not coming back here. Chase isn't and she--she doesn't know.

That's the problem. As good as her intentions were, as appropriate they were coming, she never thought about the _after_ , the things to come. She wasn't prepared for this. Sure, there are the offers. There are the coming interviews and jobs in places that she can still potentially see herself living.

But then, now, here she is.

She was supposed to go too.

"You like Italian," she murmurs.

He snorts, but she hears the smile. It relaxes her, just for the moment, and she lets herself sink into the couch. It was a mistake. She has something good. She has something _good_.

Chase laughs. "See you soon."

"Right."

She hangs up, clutching the phone. She stands too then, the couch shifting under her weight. She looks around and wonders what she's doing here. She could've left after. She should've left after the bar. Her hand rises, her fingers sliding over her throat. She still feels House's mouth against her skin. She _feels_ too much of it.

She's quiet and puts the phone down, over papers and magazines. The mess of things in the living room. She's not ready to go into the bedroom yet. Her heart is pounding again, her fingers trembling nervously. She doesn't know what to say, why this really has opened; at the time, this could be over. Is that what she wanted? Isn't that why she told herself to come _here_?

Her hands are to her face again, her fingers pressing into her forehead. She rubs the skin slowly, moving the bookshelves. Papers. Books scattered across the floor. Some slipping out of their places on the shelves. She has to spot and look and really wonder what she stepped into.

What _they_ wanted to step into.

She has to go back to bedroom. She knows it. And so, she sighs and takes a deep breath. Her hands limp against her hip and she starts to pick up her things from the floor. She remembers her jeans closer to the bedroom and she can't bolt like this. She won't give him the satisfaction.

When she steps in again, he's awake and his head is propped up by his arms. There's a smug smile, but she leaves it at that. The farther away she is from analysis and self-analysis she is, the better. Yet, it's between them here anyhow and she can feel the accusation coil around her.

 _You're running away._

She says nothing though and sits on the edge of the bed quietly, sliding into her jeans. There's a scoff and her cheeks are starting to flush again. She remembers his hand on her hip, on her breast, and the way his mouth seemed to -

"Stop it," she mutters to herself.

House snorts. "You're wearing my shirt."

She's standing then, turning and facing her hips with her hands. She feels him watch her, his eyes sliding over her face and the way she's holding herself. She swallows and dares him to say something, but all he does is raise an eyebrow.

Cameron nods. "Yeah. I guess."

The tension is nothing short of uneasy, the sudden weight of disregard turning and changing as she looks at him and then looks away, only to look back again. He seems to understand something more, the brush of his gaze heavier than usual. She wonders if he's waiting for her to say something more.

He shakes his head. "You're leaving."

"Looks like it."

She feels grim. This is more than something that he can just hold over her head, this is an entirely different avenue that's been added to what keeps changing between the two of them. She brought this here. This is her fault.

This is her fault.

But she won't unravel in front of him. She's given him too much as it is. She ignores his gaze, reaching for her jacket and covering the shirt. She pulls her hair back and out of her face, her mouth lining thin.

"It was -"

Her hand rises. " _Don't_."

"You want the confession of adoration now? Or should I call and--"

She almost snarls, her eyes dark. "Screw _you_."

She pauses and her hands clench the fabric of her pockets, her fingers digging into it. She presses each into her hips and forces herself to take a desperate breath. And then again. And again.

"You have no idea," he murmurs in amusement.

She watches him sit up and turn, his legs folding over the sides. She stares hard, watching his hand tug the sheets over his thigh. His fingers are tense and _good_ , she thinks. _Good_.

Her voice is soft. "This wasn't about some point to prove."

There's a cold feeling that is starting to rising and she doesn't like it. There are ideas forming in the back her mind, what he wants and what she wants and all those _whys_. It's not about what she's done or what she could've done. It's not about how he could've said _no_. This is bringing something completely different to the table and she's not going to stick around and see what is.

She can't. She won't.

He's quiet. And she just wants him to say something, to say anything so that she can go and not think about it anymore. When he looks at her then, his eyes are dark with twists of amusement. She can almost hear it.

She can hear the _I told you so_.

"You're right," he says slowly, shrugging. "I am going to be fine."

The twist of her own words surprises her. It doesn't hurt, it merely turns and spins around her, as if he's been laughing all this time. He can be this cruel. And she wonders why she didn't even think--

She didn't think.

"Right." It's all she can say.

Her throat dries. He isn't looking at her anymore. And all the thoughts of before seem to disappear. She doesn't understand, but she knows what he's doing. She knows what he's giving her.

It's on his terms now. It's an out.

And for the moment, it's easy to turn around.

* * *

It's late when Chase gets to her place, ready to head out to dinner.

"Hey." His mouth brushes over her jaw, his arm sliding around her shoulders as he pulls her tightly against him. "And hey again."

"Hi."

She's uncomfortable like this and feigns a pain in her shoulder--the gym this morning, she tells him. He rolls his eyes and she shrugs, reaching back to lock her door. They're walking, which is nice, and she can clear her head. She can clear her head and forget about the mess of things that just--

Stop it, she tells herself. Just _stop_.

Slowly though, she reaches for him. Her fingers lace in his hand and she brings his knuckles to her lips. The gesture isn't forced, but it isn't her either. He seems surprised. She keeps telling herself that she's trying. As long as the effort is there, she thinks, as long as it's _there_. It's a selfish reassurance, a selfish push, but he doesn't need to know. He really doesn't need to know.

She should tell him.

She licks her lips. "Hungry?"

"Starved," he nods, "the airline food was, well, you know. Airline food."

She smiles, nodding and even laughing a little. His grin is light and she ducks herself against his side, fitting herself.

The little things are easier to feel and she wonders if he's picking up on it. The tension in her mouth, in her shoulders; he won't ask, that much she knows, and that she has no idea what to do with that. A part of her is selfishly grateful. She doesn't have to say anything. He won't push because he knows better. She just doesn't talk about these things.

But then what does that mean for the two of them?

She's promised herself that she'll try. It's a selfish mantra, over and over again, but it's what she has. It's what she's given herself and the idea of these kinds of changes, changes that she should be excited about are nowhere near to sinking in.

It makes her wonder if they're moving too fast, if she should be saying things like _slow down_ and _I'm not really ready_. There is the bigger part of her that is afraid of disappointing him. Really disappointing him.

She just doesn't have it in her.

"You're quiet."

"Eh," she lies softly, startled when he tugs at her hand. She shrugs. "Resumes. Still traumatized by the interview."

"The Baltimore creep?"

She nods. "The Baltimore creep."

It does make her wonder, wonder what's going to really happen. The revelation of leaving, of coming, and of looking is just as superficial as everything else. She's out of place, out of her element, and maybe, she really wasn't ready to go. Maybe, her motivation for leaving was really about being left behind.

She doesn't want to be left behind.

The sense of uncertainty scares the hell out of her. It's not anything new and the sudden charge of admission settles and resettles, only to disappear back inside of her right here.

She doesn't want to prove House right either.

There's still a bitter taste in her mouth, along with something more. She locks that down though, in the back of her head, and pushes the weight far from here. She played. She lost. That's it.

That's _it_.

"You're going to be fine," Chase murmurs.

She jumps when he pokes her side, her eyes a little wide. He's caught her drifting. His smile is soft, and all she wants say is that she doesn't deserve it. She doesn't deserve the way he's looking at her all.

She doesn't know if she wants it.

Cameron clears her throat. "It's the shock, I guess."

"Ha." He pauses. "But we're, you know, dating?"

She laughs softly. Her throat dries and she sort of shrugs, blushing and pushing herself to move forward. Just a little bit.

"Starting to."

They have a different idea of things. It shouldn't matter. It shouldn't matter at all. She's going to try. She's going to try and it's going to be fine. She's going to work to make it fine. If there's anything else, she'll have this.

She'll let herself have this.

The restaurant is around the corner and she lets herself forget too, pretending that this is something else. It's their night. She smiles at Chase when he goes up to get them a table and they're led easily to the back.

She looks around and settles in her seat. People are scattered. The atmosphere is warmer. People can see them. She doesn't thinking about hiding, but the sensation of last night and the bar is creeping back. She remembers. No one could see them. Here, everyone can. The subject for comparison isn't fair.

It's over, remember? It's just over.

Rubbing her eyes, she leans back and scans the menu quickly. He snorts when she finishes and she shrugs.

"I'm easy," she says dryly.

His lips curl.

They're quiet then, waiting for their waiter. He looks at her. She looks away. He looks away. She looks back at him. It's a marvel, almost, how childish they sometimes are. She thinks to the beginning, back and forth displays. Things that were supposed to be meaningless, to be fun. It was always more for him, it still is--that's easier to admit then anything else. But for a moment, she would like to let herself believe that she can have something good too.

Doesn't she deserve it? She's spent so much time trying to tell herself that work was going to make things go faster. That it was going to be a good move and she would be in a good place.

She's in the middle again. She's grasping.

She does have feelings for him. But she wonders, really, if it's going to be enough. If he's really going to stay.

If she really wants him to.

"So, Arizona."

She's picking at her napkin, peeling her fingers around the edges. He leans forward and takes it away from her.

"Arizona," she says, to show that she's listening.

She doesn't reach for his hand. She feels a lot older than she should feel, her mind spinning around the prospects and the things that she could do. Vaguely, she drifts between last night and this morning and just falters over it.

"I got it."

She blinks. "Hmm?"

"The job."

Her eyes are wide. She thinks of House. She thinks of their old jobs. She thinks about how neither of them really thought about working outside the hospital. It was going to come, she's not that naïve and Chase far from it, but -

Again, she's jealous. It's easier for him.

Her lips purse. "Got--"

"The job." He nods, grinning a little. And for the first time, she really looks at him since he's been back. He's tired. He's relaxed.

And he laughs.

"That's great," she breathes, "that's _really_ great."

"Yeah."

She doesn't know what else to say and she watches as he reaches forward, his hand wrapping around hers. She doesn't want it to be like this. Don't ask, she pleads silently, don't make it go that way. But he brings her hand to his mouth, watching her with that expectation that she doesn't want to see. That she doesn't need to see.

"Chase." Her voice is too soft.

"Listen to me."

She's been here before. She's been at this table, younger and older and waiting. Something is coming and it's a change, it's something that she's never been ready for. It's something that she knows that she _can't_ be ready for.

Don't do this to _me_ , she thinks again.

"Listen to me," he says again.

"No," she breathes, "I'm not--I--"

His fingers brush against her face. She begs him silently. Don't do this. Don't do this. Don't make _me_ answer anything. But he takes her hands again and takes a deep breath, slowing the conversation down.

"I'm just saying look in the area. You don't have to come with me. But you don't have to stay either. Don't that to yourself--you're good at what you do. Better than what you let yourself think."

Her lips tremble. "I'm _not_ like you."

"I know."

"I--"

"Hey."

He shakes his head, his thumb sliding over her mouth. She softens and for a moment, right here, she allows herself to have this. She watches him and nods, for no particular reason, but she nods. She wants to have this. She wants to have something linear and full, something and someone that she can tell and trust with things in her life.

But is it here?

She needs to stop thinking like this. It's what she promised herself before. She promised that she would try. She doesn't know how long she can keep telling herself that she can. It's not fair to her. It's not fair to him.

"I don't know," she says softly. "I mean I really don't know--this a really big decision and weren't you the one--you said that we just started."

She's nervous, leaning back.

"I should be doing something for me. I know it sounds stupid, but--"

She hates the way he's looking at her. The disappointment is there. He's watching her with a heavy gaze and she just wants to say that she's not ready. She's not going to be ready at all. Not if he's going to be like this.

But then again, it's not fair.

He sighs softly. "It's okay," he tells her, "I do want you to come."

"I--Just let me--time, you know? I need time."

But Chase ends the conversation, his hands drawing back. There's no tension in his mouth, in his hands, or in the way he's watching her.

"Think about it."

She doesn't know what to say.

* * *

Cameron can't bring herself to ask him to stay.

Chase is disappointed, but does the whole _I understand_ song and dance. It's a quick goodbye, a quick congratulations, and she's pressing her back against the door after it closes, just so she doesn't watch him leave.

The pressure on her mouth is light, but her mind is far from Chase, from her dinner with him, and what he said to her. She wants to believe it, she thinks. She wants to believe the fact that she is just as ready to move on.

But her mind turns to the night before, how angry and confused she really is. She's got no control over these things and she can't let that get to her, but she's got to stop trying to convince herself that she can make these leaps.

The problem, the real problem, is that she doesn't want to make this about leaving or staying for someone. She doesn't know to make this about her.

It was about her.

Sighing, she drops her jacket and her purse.

The routine that night is simple. She checks messages. Ignores them. Sets the dishwasher. Turn on the television. Goes back to the kitchen to make herself some tea, only to end up writing it on the grocery list. It's striking how mundane everything is, but she's distracted and she needs that sense of distraction. It's a coy way of reassuring herself, but it's what she has.

It's what she has. She just has no idea what she wants.

She would love to say that this is years and years of coming clean, right in this moment, and that screwing up is that much of a help. House's name comes to mind, but she shoves it back where had it before, deep in the back of her mind. She's selfish and quiet, ignoring the systematic turns of herself, in and out. It's just not ready to happen yet.

She sighs again. And then again, as if she has nothing more to do than that. It's a dry feeling, the sense of feeling sorry for herself.

Standing in the middle of her living room, she looks around. It's habit. Everything has a place. There's almost this neurotic neatness and she's thinking back to House's place, how scattered and systematic things were anyway. This is just another version. She's just another version.

It's all it ever was.

She ignores Leno, Letterman, and whatever channel of late night she has on tonight. She drops to the couch, shakes her head, and stares at her laptop on the table. The stack of papers stays neat and removed, as it is has been, staring right back at her. She doesn't have to go. She doesn't have to stay either.

She was ready.

She was ready to leave the _job_. Everything else, for the moment, slides into secondary columns and the repulsion is ignored. She had the choice, Chase was right. She had the choice to stay and keep herself in the game, to keep herself going for the last few cycles.

But then she's back at House's apartment, her eyes closed, and she can see him staring at her with that gaze. She's confused. She's angry, at neither of them, but at herself. She's angry for letting it get that way.

It was supposed to be on her terms.

Sighing again, she sits up and reaches for the stack of resumes that she printed out. The paper is thick, subtle, and she shakes her head. She tosses them to the side and reaches for a file. There's a note, _think about it_ , and she opens it to see the teaching hospital's logo on the front.

She doesn't have to work for House anymore.

Her lips tighten. It finished on his terms and a little bit of hers, she can't give him the entire credit. Whether or not, it's started something, it doesn't matter. It shouldn't matter. She made the decision to be here.

Fingering the piece of paper, she closes the file. Her shoulders relax and she reaches for her phone again. It's never going to be solved. It's never going to not be there. And she has the time--

She has the time to do this her way.

Her finger press against the phone and she calls Chase, her throat thick and her hand tightening. She takes a deep breath. He deserves to know first.

"Hey," she says into the phone, "it's me. I--"

He laughs. "Miss me?"

It's easier. It's going to get easier. She needs to stop looking for reassurances. They're not going to come. She can be selfish. She can be stupid. But ultimately, ultimately, she followed no one.

This was all here. She's going to get there. She's going to be ready to take it.

She's quiet. "I think I'm going to stick to looking around here."

The edge of disappointment will come, and she expects it to, but she's back in the office, again, and she's straight. The tension lifts and Chase is saying something like _it's your decision_.

He's right. He's _right_.

It's her decision to stay.


End file.
